


My Big Boy Pants Are Chafing

by ThroughTheTulips



Series: 30 Days of Sabriel: An Erratic OTP Challenge By A Lazy Author [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Becky Rosen is not a harmless fangirl you guys, Fluff, M/M, a wee small tad of angst for flavoring, moody mooses, moondor shenanigans, or meese or whatever, she's almost literally sam's worst nightmare, the destiel is hella background guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4790690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThroughTheTulips/pseuds/ThroughTheTulips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a bad day in Moondor... until he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Big Boy Pants Are Chafing

**Author's Note:**

> Holy schnikes, I started this in 2013? yeah, I might not make 30 months even. I will finish this, though... the problem is that I can only write this story when I'm happy and that's been in a bit of short supply lately. Credit for this update goes to my delightful Cali friends and the tumblr bro who wrote me snarky Sabriel fluff on a dare.

**30 Day OTP Challenge Day 12: Making Out**

                                                                  

 

_In Which Sam Winchester Has A Bad Day… Until He Doesn’t_

            Moondor was stupid.

            Not the actual battle, Sam admitted to himself. That had been kind of cool. Charlie was amazing with a sword and her army had clearly practiced. Maybe they wouldn’t stand up to a horde of demons, but they were athletic and enthusiastic. They cut through the orc army in a frenzy of good-natured fake violence. Anyone who ‘died’ did so with such melodramatic delight that it was clear death was almost as much fun as winning. It was hectic and ridiculous and surprisingly relaxing. Dean hadn’t looked so happy in years.

            Then again, Dean’s general aura of happiness might have something to do with the trench-coated angel beside him at the campfire. Sam shifted in his seat, smiling. Dean hadn’t made any formal announcements, but he and Castiel showed up to breakfast holding hands. That was enough. Gabriel was Upstairs meeting with Raphael and Sam wasn’t likely to tease his brother when he was vulnerable, so they had a very normal meal before heading to the campground.

            The campground, which was the cause of Sam’s current dark mood.

            He was a professional hunter. He’d beaten vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons, angels, even the devil himself. He worked out five days a week with the dedication that came from knowing a little extra speed could save a life. He was a great fighter, quick and agile and…

            And he’d fallen down a hill and sprained his ankle. Badly.

            Worse, Charlie and her war leaders had reached him first. One of them turned out to be a doctor in real life. Dana had pronounced it a “wicked bad sprain” and told him to “ice it down and hit your GP on Monday, cool?”

            Sam let them carry him back to base and wrap his swollen foot, fully expecting Castiel to heal him when everyone’s attention moved elsewhere, but he’d underestimated the LARPers. They were overwhelmingly nice. A group of them appointed themselves his Honor Guard, running to get fresh drinks or to change out the ice around his ankle. Nothing would clear them away long enough for a stealth healing. When he said he needed the bathroom two huge guys in orc costumes supported him over to a tree. When he suggested sleeping in the Impala, claiming the camp chair was uncomfortable, they built him a pile of pillows in a place of honor near the fire. It would have been sweet if it wasn’t so frustrating.

            “You’re gonna have to suck it up until we leave,” Dean had said finally, leaning in so no one would overhear. “It’ll look weird if it magically heals overnight. Cas can take care of it in the car tomorrow, okay?”

            There was nothing else for it. Sam sat back and resigned himself to an uncomfortable evening.

            It didn’t even hurt that much, he told himself. His ankle throbbed, sure, but he’d had worse. He’d just been spoiled by ready access to angelic healing. He wasn’t really missing anything. Some of the players had brought out instruments, so there was live music, and if he so much as looked at someone’s plate they offered to bring him food. Maybe he couldn’t dance, like most of the group, but then he didn’t dance often anyway. He was fine. This was fine.

            “Look at you putting on your big boy pants,” someone purred in his ear. A costumed Gabriel insinuated himself into the pillow nest, fox ears twitching with amusement. “I could hear you trying not to sulk from Heaven.”

            Sam scowled into his beer. “I wasn’t sulking.”

            “You were pointedly not sulking,” the archangel said, grinning. He hooked an arm around Sam’s waist and leaned in. “Swanky place you got here. This has to be every pillow in the encampment.”

            It actually was, or near enough. Sam unbent a little. “Everything okay with Raphael?”

            “Mmm. She had a tip for me. Seems one Becky Rosen was looking for you in Vegas, where you normally are this time of year.”

            “Becky Rosen? Chuck’s girlfriend? Does she know where he is?” Chuck had vanished somewhere between the Cage and Gabriel’s return, a constant source of irritation for Heaven. Losing a Prophet wasn’t good for their image.

            Gabriel’s expression flickered into annoyance before settling on amusement. “Not so much. Apparently they broke up before the Apocalypse, and she decided you were her One True Love. She was planning on dosing you with love potion then dragging you to the altar before it wore off.”

            Sam let out a startled laugh. “You’re kidding.” The amber eyes didn’t blink, and his laugh faded. “You’re not kidding.”

            “Serious as a heart attack here. The hopeful Mrs. Winchester had enough of the stuff to keep you out of your head for a few days. ”

            The hunter rubbed his jaw, fighting the panicky surge of memory. “That’s… that’s pretty messed up, Gabriel. How could she even think of doing that?”

            His partner’s smile widened into something a little frightening. “Becky wasn’t thinking about it. Intentionally. She is now, though. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he added when Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t kill her. I locked her in her own personal time loop for a while, let her see all the ways things could go south and didn’t let her out until she swore she’d leave you alone.”

            “It’s good to see you use that trick for something good.”

            Gabriel went still. “Sam-”

            “Not now,” Sam interrupted. His mind was still stuttering over how close he’d come to being a mindless doll for Becky Rosen; he didn’t have room to freak out over Mystery Spot. He dug out half a smile. “And… thanks. I knew she had a thing for me, but that cuts a little too close to some dark memories.”

            “I know,” the archangel said quietly. “I wish you’d let me take those from you.”

            It was an offer he’d made before. Sam gave the same answer he always did. “I don’t want anyone else messing with my mind. Practical jokes are one thing, two hundred years of memories are another, and some of the stuff he told me could be useful someday. I let you stop the nightmares, don’t I?”

            Gabriel ran a hand along Sam’s leg. The pain vanished, though his foot still appeared swollen. “You saved the world, Sam, you and Dean. Chasing off a few dreams isn’t half what you deserve.”

            “Forget it.” Sam bent to catch a kiss. Butterscotch, with the slightly burned edge that meant Gabriel was feeling guilty. The hunter bumped their foreheads together gently. “Seriously, forget it. I just want to sit here and let my boyfriend distract me from my busted foot.”

            It was as close to begging as he could come. The fox-tail on Gabriel’s costume lashed one, agitated, then relaxed. “Your foot isn’t busted anymore,” he said, customary smirk falling back into place. “But I’ll distract you anyway.” As he always did these days, Gabriel kept his promise. Sam forgot about his foot. He forgot about most everything.

            At least until the next morning when Charlie linked him to the Moondor Instagram. There were at least ten pictures from different angles of moose antlers and fox ears, always tangled in a mass of sheets. They hadn’t done more than make out, but they both looked undeniably debauched. Dean laughed until he fell sideways against Castiel. Sam just dropped his forehead to the table and let Gabriel stroke his hair until he stopped blushing.

            Later, when no one could see, he saved two of the better shots to his phone.


End file.
